


Every Tear a Waterfall

by DAZzle_10



Series: Trans Owen Farrell [3]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Internalized Transphobia, Trans Male Character, Trans Owen Farrell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:55:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Owen deals with dysphoria. Because if you've missed the tags and the name of the series, he's trans in this. As for real life, I can't say, but I'm assuming he's not FtM, because a) I think it's the sort of thing the media would know about and would peddle out every 6N/World Cup; b) the logistics don't quite check out; and c) I think it's the Daily Mail that has an article with a picture of his birth certificate?Anyway, he tries to juggle his greatest passion and dysphoria, is what's going on here.





	Every Tear a Waterfall

**Author's Note:**

> Gender dysphoria can suck my dick. Sorry about the language. But it can. (It actually technically can't, on account of... y'know... me not having one... BUT it should. ...If it consents.)
> 
> Um... Usual warning of gender dysphoria/Owen not necessarily always respecting his own feelings, because let's face it, his mental fortitude/attitude to rugby is absolutely *incredible*, but I'm fairly certain that he'd take it too far if it came to something like this. So, just be careful. It's probably an easier read than the Once upon a time on the same side, though. Also much shorter.
> 
> Hope you're all in good health, mentally and physically, or at least looking after yourself and letting yourself be looked after by others if you're not. Did you know that Microsoft Word (or at least the particular version I have on my laptop) can't pronounce 'dysphoria'? It puts the emphasis on the 'i', which it also pronounces like 'eye'. So that's a bit weird. But then, the amount of players' names it can't pronounce, I tell you... I could sit there and just copy and paste names into it, just to listen to its attempts. It's great.
> 
> The title's from Coldplay's Paradise. I actually considered a few lines from that song (I knew I wanted to use it specifically, though), but eventually decided to stick to this. One of said lines, I'd quite like to use at some point.

Owen scrubs a hand over his eyes and tries not to blow out the breath he’s been holding too audibly. There’s something about new kit, for training or for games, that just… worries him somehow: makes him feel like maybe _this_ will be the one that shows everything he’s spent so long trying to hide, as though somewhere in the new colour schemes and adapted fits, it will become obvious that his body is not the same, that his facial structure doesn’t match theirs (though really, it does; he’s just paranoid), that his hips are too wide and his dick… non-existent.

He’s fine, though, just like he always is, and now his only job is to pretend that his cheeks aren’t burning and his heart isn’t racing as he slowly calms himself, reassured by the reflection he sees before him. Not that his teammates are around to see this loss of composure in the safety of the room he shares with Dylan, but... All the same. 

Slowly, he sucks in a shaky breath and lets it back out. He's good.

“Alright, Faz?”

The hand that claps him firmly on the back is George’s, the touch lingering for just a moment as his friend fixes him with a concerned frown before falling away.

“Yeah,” Owen swallows. “Yeah, I’m good.”

George peers at the kit in interest, nodding his approval, and Owen fights the urge to cover himself somehow; he always hates being scrutinised in rugby kit, because it’s the only time he lets himself be seen by anyone outside of his family (and technically Dylan, actually) without a packer, and it feels too noticeable, too obvious that something’s… missing. And yeah, Owen’s lucky not to have much dysphoria when it comes to that, but it’s still a sign that he’s different – a giveaway to everyone around him who doesn’t know and whom he doesn’t plan on telling.

“Suits you,” George offers, frown returning in seconds. “What’s up?”

“I’m fine, really,” Owen tries to insist, but George has known him far too long, was with him through some of his worst periods of dysphoria, and he knows that he’s failed to convince the younger man in the slightest.

“Seriously, mate, you’re not.”

Sighing, Owen looks away and shrugs, conceding the mini clash of wills. He’s too busy trying to ignore the sickness in his throat and the tightening of his ribs around his lungs to fight any other battles. He’s fine, he knows he’s fine, and even if he weren’t, there’s no one here but George to see him, and George wouldn't judge him like that. It doesn’t really help right now, though, when his brain is working overtime, highlighting every little part of him that he’ll never quite manage to change, no matter what he does – and all the bits that he _has_ changed, but sometimes worries aren’t enough.

“Dysphoria,” he admits. “…Sort of.”

George’s eyebrows rise, falling a moment later to draw together instead. Owen watches out of the corner of his eyes, hoping – very clearly in vain – that George will accept that as a complete answer and leave it.

“You still get that? I thought…”

Owen shrugs again.

“I mean…” he struggles for a suitable explanation for several seconds, George waiting patiently all the while. “It’s more… It’s more how I _used_ to look, but sometimes, I just – I worry that I still look…”

He can’t finish the sentence. George, luckily, knows him well enough not to do it for him. When Owen can’t bring himself to say certain words, it can be easier to let someone else fill them in, but that really doesn’t mean he wants to hear them; if he can, he’d far rather avoid them altogether. (And what he’s just said isn’t even the full truth, but he really doesn’t want to get into a discussion about the parts of his anatomy that he hasn’t changed, especially not right now.)

“Sorry, mate.”

Uncomfortable, Owen merely shrugs. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity, not even George’s, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. Instead of standing under George’s sympathetic stare, he blows out a breath and rubs his damp palms together in an attempt to hide their anxiety-induced sweatiness. He almost wants to call this off, but he wants to get some kicking practice in (especially since he doubts that they’ll always be allowed to fit kicking practice into their designated time off), and so does George, and he’s definitely not going to back down because of _dysphoria_ , of all things. (He did that enough when he was a kid. He’s not going back to it now.)

“How’d you get in here anyway?” he asks, frowning.

“Dylan let me in,” George shrugs. “I was looking for you – you said you’d meet me outside my room ten minutes ago.”

Owen checks his watch and curses internally. Of course. Of _fucking_ course. Because apparently, he’s too distracted by these _stupid, pathetic_ insecurities to keep track of the time.

“Right,” he swallows. “You should’ve just said.”

The first ten minutes out on the pitch with George are alright. He’s fine – almost good, even, when he can force his hyper-awareness of his body to the side for a moment to laugh at something that George says – but it’s all a trick, lulling him into a false sense of security, because as he’s leaning over to pick up his tee, he could swear that his chest feels heavier than it should. It’s just his mind playing with him, he knows, but that doesn’t stop the sudden doubt as he freezes in place, and it takes more willpower than he’d ever like to admit to stand up straight and force a smile like nothing’s wrong.

Fighting back the rising panic, he drops his tee to the side with his bottle and turns his attention to the ball that George sends hurtling towards him, bringing it into his chest – his _flat_ chest, at least apart from his pecs, and _only_ his pecs – then adjusting his body position to boot it back in George’s direction. _Shit, no… Not now…_

His heart feels like it’s beating just a little faster than it should be, somehow out of time with the rest of his body, but he catches the ball and sends it back again, repeats the routine again and again as he tries to stop his eyes from stinging just a little. He’s not going to stop training just because of a little issue like this. He’s normally fine, so it’s hardly going to be more than a passing feeling, is it? It’ll go away in a matter of minutes.

Any minute now…

He doesn’t quite register that George has kicked the ball back towards him, not even attempting to catch it – he’s way out of position right now – and as he jogs towards it to intercept its bounce, he could swear his pecs bounce slightly, like – like…

He can’t do this.

Faintly, he feels irritated with himself for doing this to George, for letting this get in the way of his training, of his rugby, when he _knows_ that’s the only thing keeping him sane some days, but he doesn’t really care right now. He just wants to find the baggy hoodie that he’s never quite gotten out of the habit of packing and get it on, so that maybe, just maybe, he’ll stand a chance of hiding everything that’s wrong with him.

“I need to head back!” he calls towards George, who he’s practically fleeing from: leaving his friend all alone on the pitch because he’s a _selfish dick_.

Later, he’ll apologise. Maybe, he’ll even explain what happened – but probably not, and he doesn’t want to think about that at the moment, because thinking about explaining it means thinking about it in itself, and that’s _really_ not helping – but right now, he just needs to hide. Because apparently, he might be an international rugby player, but he’s not above tugging on a hoodie and covering himself with a duvet so that he can pretend the world doesn’t exist and his body is invisible – non-existent, even. He’s beginning to think he never _will_ get past this.

(Not that it actually _works_ that well, because it just gives him more time to think about everything that’s different about him, and even if no one can see him, _he_ still knows it’s all there – and he doesn’t have any way to remind himself that not everything is as obvious, or as unusual, as his brain tells him it is. But… It’s the best he has, and maybe one day, he’ll stop needing it altogether. It’s just that today is not that day.)

**Author's Note:**

> Um… So… I like to check through works even after they've been posted because I'm paranoid like that, and I sort of just noticed a typo that changes the entire meaning of a phrase, so… Had to fix that.


End file.
